Chapter 733 Xia Shou VS Writer (Part 3)

But even though the attack failed, Xia Shou was ecstatic in his heart, which proved that his attack had produced an effect. He used the rapid attack of the three-foot water to approach and touch the writer, so that the writer could not distance himself in time, so he had to turn his body into flames to avoid his touch.

Now the writer's right shoulder and left foot have been lost, and he can no longer use instant steps. His mobility and the writer's are now at the same level!

The writer's eyes wandered between Xia Shou and the carpenter teacher. The existence of time became blurred, and history seemed to have no distinction between before and after. The fragments in the memory became real and strange.

He clearly remembered that in that shabby and poor village, in a leaky wooden house covered with sawdust, an old man took a wooden stick and wrote in the sandy wood powder on the ground, saying to him:

"Gousheng, our village is full of ordinary people, and no one lives as long as you.

The Qing Dynasty is over, but you are not.

You can't imagine now that you will become a great writer in the Republic of China, right?"

"Gousheng, you know how to write a book. Even though you can't recognize a few words now, you will write better and better in the future.

There are so many big things happening around you, and in none of them did you really do anything, not even cowardly, and nothing has anything to do with you, but you still wrote them all down.

They are all good stories, and people are reluctant to close the book after reading them.

Gousheng, don't cry.

I know why you are crying. You are not crying because you can't remember the words, but because you think that the readers will not remember you as the author.

But don't worry, the people you write down will remember you.

Anonymous is also Name, there are so many anonymous names, people who read it can't distinguish them, but Zhiman Mountain can distinguish them, and Zhiman Mountain will remember you, just like you remember it.

You have written so many books, but you have never really written one of your own. You have nothing to write, right?

Yes, how can a person who writes about others write about himself? Even if you want to write, there is nothing to write. If you really want to write, you can only write about yourself and others.

But now it's good, you finally have something big to write about, this time you are the real protagonist, from ancient times to the present, look back, how many people have real names in ten thousand years?

Your parents gave you Gousheng, I gave you Zhang Yi, you didn't want a name, but you were given an anonymous name that is not a name.

And this time, you will finally have a real name, the Kingdom of God will have your name, and Zhiman Mountain will also record what you are doing now.

You should thank that Shangguan person, without her, even in the end, you will not have much worth writing about. "

The carpenter was teaching him to write, and he was crying.

The writer couldn't remember whether he cried because he couldn't recognize the words, or because no one remembered the book he wrote, as his master said.

This absurd memory was so real, it spoke of the future in the past, and the present in the past... He couldn't tell the difference, and there was no need to tell the difference.

Now he just felt like he was looking at the present from the future, and he saw the outcome of this battle.

He saw himself hanging on a branch of the Paper Curtain Mountain, light and inconspicuous, but when people took it off later, they would see that this was the last battle of the named.

They would read with relish, watching the last moment when he, the named person, really asked for a name in his lonely life of a long hundred years.

His parents didn't give him the name he wanted, his teacher didn't give him the name he wanted, and even he didn't give himself a name, but at this moment, he asked the magic poem for a name that would be passed down forever...

As time passed in reality, the writer's right shoulder and left foot turned into flames, and the fire turned into blood.

Xia Shou reached out his hand for the second time, and he didn't give the writer any chance to breathe, and directly touched the writer's chest.

The writer's eyes, which had swelled and turned red due to the high temperature, suddenly turned and stared at Xia Shou.

His eyes made Xia Shou's breathing stagnate, and a string in his brain was stretched to the brink of breaking.

Xia Shou didn't know how to describe the other person's eyes. The eyeballs were obviously necrotic, but he could still feel the intense emotions in them.

The cheeks covered with sticky hot blood moved slightly, as if they smiled, as if they had not been fighting just now, and now they saw each other for the first time.

"It's great." The writer said.

In Xia Shou's ears, this was a completely meaningless crazy talk, but in the writer's ears, this was the perfect ending of his hundred-year life.

In just a few seconds, during the lightning-fast battle, for the writer, he had already listened to the long talk of the carpenter teacher. This reunion of life and death was hidden in the abyss by the illusion of true and false.

Even at this time, the carpenter still stood beside the writer, and said with emotion: "Gou Sheng, Master congratulates you."

When the writer heard this congratulation, Xia Shou was also like a breeze.

The continuous slashing, like a slanting wind and drizzle, gently enveloped Xia Shou's whole body. These slashings were so slender, so sharp, but dense like transparent silk.

When these silks passed over his face, it was so fast that it seemed like an illusion.

Xia Shou turned into parallel raindrops hundreds of meters long.

All organs disappeared, and he fell into the world without sound, light, touch or feeling again. Only the text description accompanied him. The text description was his only channel to understand the outside world.

He saw that the text description showed the rapid decline of various desires. Among the three desires, the desire to kill fell off a cliff and quickly headed towards zero.

As the desires quickly decayed, Xia Shou's various perceptions were slowly returning.

The first to return was the sense of touch, on the forehead, which showed that a piece of skin on his forehead had blood gathering again.

Then there was a very small field of vision, which meant that part of his eyeballs had been reconstructed. He saw the writer standing firmly on one foot in front of him very close, and the two were only half a meter apart.

The writer's bloody and skinless cheeks were inlaid with two ripe eyeballs.

No mistake, one post, one content, one 6, one 9, one book, one bar!

But in this corpse-like state, Xia Shou actually sensed an emotional fluctuation that was more intense than any living person.

That emotion was intense to the most calm extreme.

In Xia Shou's limited vocabulary, the closest adjective he could find was divinity.

The next second, the little vision and touch that had been restored with great difficulty disappeared again, and at the same time, the only remaining desire to kill was also consumed.

The second self state was out.

Xia Shou,

Death.

…

…

[Self-death] was activated.

He had one last chance left.

Before retracing, Xia Shou thought quickly.

The battle just now was purely a battle of mechanisms.

He had no means to defend against the writer's attack, and the writer was also not immune to his peak offensive.

They were like two monsters with zero defense, and the damage they inflicted on each other was a critical hit every time!

There was basically no place for tactics in this battle.

The writer's slashes were almost all instantaneous, and his body movements and reaction speed were incredibly fast, far beyond the human limit, and completely overwhelmed him in the peak scorpion spine state!

The brain of a living creature still relies on reflex nerves, but the writer's fighting instinct makes all his reactions seem to have no delay.

Especially at the end, Xia Shou guessed that he should have been slashed again, but he didn't feel it.

Before this, although the writer's slashes were already very fast, they were not so fast that he didn't feel anything at all.

This can only mean that the time from the opponent's attack touching him to killing him was much shorter than the time it took for the tactile signal to be transmitted from the contact point to the brain.

In other words... the only way to avoid the damage of the slash, the flash kill by attack, could not be launched in the last attack.